Beware: this blog contains sarcasm…
Now is a good time to make a full disclosure: I spent 15 years in London before moving to Sydney. That said, despite my British passport, I was always ‘the French one’ there. I was constantly reminded that, in no particular order, I had an accent, France was the best country to spend your holidays in, and French women were oh so sexy. I quickly realized that there was no point in fighting the clichés on the French or trying to debunk the myths. The British were clearly suffering from some sort of group psychosis, and nothing I could say or do would change their outdated view of the world. The world might still be reaping the chaos the British Empire sowed; the Brits keep a stiff upper lip and lecture everybody. Mind you, the French aren’t any better. Nothing really changes in the old continent.
When I moved Down Under, I thought that I was in danger of being seen as British more than French. What I am trying to say is this: would I be considered a Pom? Needless to say, being a Pom isn’t a compliment in Australia. The word “Pom” usually comes with derogatory adjectives such as “whingeing”, “bloody” or even “bastard” (as in ‘bastard Pommies’).
So how do you recognize a “Pom”? Well, for starters, they complain all the time. This is because, in order to thrive in Australia, they have to let go of some of their inhibitions and do things they’d never normally do. Not an easy task for them. Like, for instance, cope in the heat. The only heat they ever experienced back in Blighty was standing too close to the oven when the door had just been opened. In their defence, any temperature above 25C triggers a heat wave alert, and a complete standstill of the whole country. Furthermore, it is common knowledge that the Poms don’t do well in the sun. They bake, and instantly become red, scabby and cranky. They have yet to understand that drinking too much beer in the sun might lead to dehydration, which obviously would never happen in the UK as the British summer lasts three days on a good year. Mind you, the Brits have the same problem with rose wine in my native Provence, and I am told that Emergency Services are flooded with Brits during the summer months for the very same reason.
Poms also use insulting terms for everything that’s not like them. As an example, they look down on wearing thongs (the Aussie version), going barefoot or drinking local beer. They call it ‘going native’. Not a good thing, I can assure you. Not as bad as being French, obviously, but pretty close.
During one of my interviews for a job in Sydney, I ended up having to spend twenty minutes talking about my accent rather than the technical skills required for the position. My interviewer was, of course, a Pom; my luck again. I found another job where I felt more accepted, accent, warts and all. I knew he simply couldn’t get over my French accent anyway; there was no point in trying to change his view of the world. Been there, done it (or rather, didn’t manage to do it). Some battles are not worth fighting anyway.
Poms are also obsessed, in no particular order, with Brexit, international affairs (understand UK centric affairs), Meghan Markle (give the girl a break for God’s sake!) and correcting my bad English. They can’t help it. And of course they have to judge. They know better. Of course they do.
Don’t get me wrong: most Poms end up settling down in Australia, and actually becoming nice people with a quirky sense of humor. But a small minority end up going back to the UK after a few months, or even a couple of years. The lost Pom is, in fact, an endangered species. In order to survive in Australia, he or she will have to stop the pomification processs to embrace the Australian way of life. That said, it’s not an easy process, and, sometimes, even long-settled Brits will have a flare-up of Pommyitis. It can strike at any time, and it usually happens after a family holiday back in the UK or in the French holiday home. The warning signs are reasonably easy to spot and often include starting each sentence by ‘when I was in the UK…’ what follows usually is yet another example how things were way better back home, and how Aussies are raucous, unsophisticated descendants of ex-convicts. Anecdotic evidence tends to show that the at-risk population is mainly, white, male, middle-aged and overweight. Unfortunately, no cure has been found as of yet, and acute episodes of Pommyitis need to be managed on a day-to-day basis. Having a fact-based conversation during such episodes has proven to be impossible and could even be counter-productive, as Pommyitis is known to be on the psychosis spectrum. Unfortunately, the more time passes between the first Pommyitis symptoms and adequate treatment, the poorer the prognosis…There is yet inadequate proof to say conclusively that Pommyitis causes permanent brain damage, but researchers are still pursuing a better understanding of the neurological impact of Pommyitis episodes. Learning to go surfing, wearing short pants and more generally going native have proven to help and even reverse some severe cases, but the at-risk population isn’t always fit enough to pursue such avenues of treatment.
Pommyitis can jump generations, and unfortunately the younger population isn’t immune to it. Younger sufferers are often found in Old Boys clubs lamenting that the world has changed too fast, women should not be accepted in their circles and cannot achieve anything on their own, and have a tendency to ‘like their drinks’ –understand, be high-functioning alcoholics. Unfortunately, once again, the recovery chances are slim. We know a sufferer who had to be taken to an institution when he landed in London after drinking too much on the flight and feeling so warm that he exited the plane in the nude while shouting that the Empire was finally striking back. On the bright side, he was visited by the newly elected Prime Minister and asked to apply for a job to deliver Brexit.
In short, the good news is that I was never considered a Pom, and probably never will be. I remain very French. The bad news is that Poms are simply everywhere, and, more often than not, I feel like I am lost in the Pomised land.
